Chapter 17

  The difference was night and day.

  Ren had always known the right tools made a difference in the kitchen, but magic-infused cooking gear?

  It was like shifting from a campfire to a full industrial range.

  The collapsible brazier let him control heat in precise bands, letting him toast spices in one zone while simmering broth in another. The pressure-infuser pan? Absolute game changer. Infusing a blend of frostmint and spicy pepperroot into a fatty boar rib had taken half a day before—now it took twelve minutes. And it tasted better. Sharper. Cleaner. The mana didn’t muddle or burn the food like it sometimes did in the iron pot. The whisk—thin strands of spun mana-glass—was flexible enough to stir sauces without scalding them and strong enough to fold air into the mana-sweetened egg foam Ren had started experimenting with.

  And for the first time since arriving in this world, Ren felt prepared.

  The next day, he opened The Sleazy Snake early. Not to serve—just to test.

  He set out three new specials. One was a crisp sugar-glazed flatbread with roasted wild tubers and a reduction of frostmint jam. Another: grilled shimmerfish with lemon zest butter.

  The third? A mana-swirled custard tart with just enough ghostfruit to make the tongue buzz for five seconds after swallowing.

  Within the hour, his regulars were lined up, raving.

  He jotted down their feedback while pretending not to. Less about ego—more about refinement. The festival was approaching, and with it, competition. Merchants were already starting to trickle in, some from as far as Vellmoor and South Istra. The market district was swelling, not just with goods and gossip, but with people. Unfamiliar people. Some with hungry eyes.

  Ren felt it in his chest, like pressure under the ribs. Not fear, exactly. Just… alertness.

  Three nights later, he stayed after dark to prep the meat and vegetables and pre-mix some syrups. Most vendors had cleared out. The usual tavern songs drifted faintly from the square, but the Snake’s corner was quiet.

  Too quiet.

  Ren’s hand was halfway to the spice rack when something clicked behind him—soft, metallic, deliberate.

  He spun, catching a glint of something black and curved.

  Knife.

  The figure lunged, silent and precise, dagger arcing straight for his throat. Ren ducked on instinct, years of kitchen reflexes slamming into place. He clumsily tried to throw but it shattered against the wall, missing the attacker entirely.

  He would’ve died, right there, if not for him.

  Thwip.

  A black-fletched arrow buried itself into the attacker’s shoulder. The assassin hissed, stumbling back. Another arrow pinned their sleeve to the doorframe. Ren turned toward the source—and saw Tallen step out of the shadows, bow half-drawn.

  “Stay down!” he barked.

  Ren dropped behind the counter.

  The assassin yanked the arrow free and vanished into the night, fast as smoke, bleeding and silent.

  “Not too bad for a forager, huh?”

  They didn’t speak for a full minute. Just breathed.

  Then Ren stood, legs shaking slightly. “You followed me?”

  Tallen shrugged, loosening his bowstring. “Didn’t like the look of a guy watching your stall earlier. Figured I’d tail you just in case.”

  Ren stared at the doorway where the attacker had vanished.

  “I guess… thanks.”

  Tallen nodded, then glanced around. “You’re bleeding.”

  Ren looked down. A shallow nick along his shoulder—hadn’t even noticed.

  “Just a scratch.”

  Tallen frowned. “Still. That didn’t look like a robbery, too target.”

  Ren swallowed. “Yeah. I figured.”

  ____________

  Ren didn’t open the stall the next day.

  He tried. Got out of bed, prepped dough like usual, even mixed a base for his morning sauce. But when he reached for the knife to start chopping, his fingers locked up. The blade trembled in his grip, images flashing behind his eyes—silent footsteps, gleaming steel, the click of intent just before death.

  He set the knife down. Walked away.

  It wasn’t just nerves. His chest felt tight. Like his ribs had cinched in on his lungs and wouldn’t let go.

  He scrubbed the counters twice. Rearranged the spice rack alphabetically, then by affinity type. Everything smelled wrong. Too sharp. Too earthy. Too… off.

  He only realized the front shutters were still closed when someone knocked—twice, then a third time, longer.

  “Ren?” Tallen’s voice.

  Ren didn’t answer, just unlatched the door and stepped aside. Tallen entered, looked around at the untouched prep station and the neat, surgical counters.

  “You didn’t sleep,” the archer said.

  Ren just shook his head.

  “You should sit.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not.”

  Ren’s laugh came out hollow. “So what now, huh? Just another day in mana fantasy land? Pretend I didn’t almost get murdered in my own shop?”

  Tallen didn’t push. Just leaned against the counter and let Ren spill it out. The flash of steel. The pressure in his chest. The image of blood running down tile, how close it had been.

  And how off-balance everything felt now. Like the world had tilted and he was the only one who noticed.

  Tallen stayed quiet until the end. Then he nodded.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “You’re not crazy,” he said. “I’ve seen men act like that after real battles. Not just fights—ambushes. When death comes close and personal, and doesn’t ask first.”

  Ren looked down at his hands. Still trembling, even when clenched.

  “So what do I do?”

  “We find out who sent them.”

  “How?”

  Tallen pulled a folded slip of paper from his pocket. “I pulled this from the doorway after the assassin ran. It fell from their belt.”

  He slid it across the counter.

  Ren opened it.

  It was a sketch. A rough one, but unmistakable. His face. Annotated with notes. “Observed regularly.” “Potential non-native.” “Mana signature similar to other Outsiders”

  And stamped at the bottom: an unfamiliar seal : A circle with four lines crossing each other within and a knife piercing the middle surrounded by some kind of runic glyphs between the lines.

  Not the Church. But maybe an ally of it.

  “Who the hell are these people?”

  Tallen folded his arms. “Don’t know. But they’re watching you. And they’re scared.”

  Ren didn’t speak for a long time. Just stared at the paper. Then, finally:

  “I need to talk to Farin.”

  “The alchemist?”

  “Yes”

  Tallen raised an eyebrow but simply said “I’ll walk you there. You shouldn’t be alone.”

  Ren almost said he was fine—but the memory of steel at his throat shut the lie down before it left his mouth.

  “Thanks.”

  ________

  Farin didn’t ask questions at first. He simply looked at Tallen’s grim expression, at Ren’s pale face and waved them both inside. The workshop was quiet except for the occasional bubble of something volatile.

  Ren sat stiffly on the edge of the bench, still shaken. Tallen stood by the door, arms crossed.

  “I’m alive,” Ren muttered.

  “Good,” Farin said. He handed Ren a bitter-smelling tonic and asking him to explain everything he know.

  “You said the man had gloves,and seeing your symptoms, the knife was probably poisoned- don’t worry the tonic is already neutralising it.

  That’s targeted. Professional.”

  Ren swallowed. “Why? I’m just a cook.”

  “No, Ren,” Farin said. “You’re an Outsider and apparently a known one now.

  And there are people in this world who do not like the unpredictable.”

  Tallen glanced between them but didn’t interrupt. Farin sighed, sat beside Ren, and lit the lantern. “You need to understand the bigger picture. This isn’t just some backwater anymore. The dungeon’s presence changed everything.”

  He reached for a rolled map, tapped the region Ren had come to know. “This continent is fractured into empires, city-states, and old alliances held together by grudges and gold. The largest powers are the Caelian Empire in the northeast—ambitious, militarized, ruled by a council of noble-blooded mages—and the Free Wyrmkin Confederacy to the south. They don’t get along.”

  “I noticed,” Ren said weakly.

  Farin smirked. “Humans and wyrmkin have been at each other’s throats for centuries. Some border zones haven’t seen a generation grow up without war. The elves keep to themselves in the western woods—powerful, immortal, arrogant. They’re technically neutral, but don’t expect their help.”

  “And the dwarves?”

  “Neutral, but not passive. They run most of the highland trade, banking, and rune-smithing. They don’t like the elves—old wounds, old betrayals—but they don’t act unless it threatens business.”

  “And here?” Ren asked.

  “This town’s caught in the middle of it all,” Farin said. “And now that the dungeon’s surfaced, everyone’s interested. That means politics, spies, and worse.”

  He leaned back. “Power isn’t just in armies. You’ve got the Adventurer’s Guild—the most dominant presence in the region. They’re the ones who maintain dungeon law, issue licenses, and keep monsters from spilling into towns. Then there’s the Mage Guild and the Crafters Guild—both smaller here, but with connections everywhere. Don’t cross them.”

  Ren nodded slowly, the map blurring slightly in his vision.

  “And under them are the sects, clans, and lesser orders. Some religious, some mercantile, some just old families with long memories and sharp knives. Whoever came for you might belong to any of them.”

  Ren looked down at his hands. “I just wanted to cook.”

  “And you still can,” Farin said. “But now you understand what you’re cooking in. This world doesn’t reward ignorance, Ren. If you’re going to survive—if you’re going to change things—you need to know the board.”

  He paused for a few seconds before saying “You should stay out of sight for a few days.”

  “I will,” Ren murmured. But his eyes flicked to the festival notes tucked into his bag. “After the festival.”

  Farin sighed. “Of course.”

  _________________

  Ren kept his head down for the next few days, just like Tallen and Farin told him. He closed The Sleazy Snake—put up a sign about “Festival Prep Underway” and only opened briefly each morning to stock up on essentials. Even then, he kept his hood up and interactions minimal. The memory of cold steel against his ribs and the gloved man’s blank stare still lingered just beneath the surface.

  But the fear couldn’t drown the fire.

  He threw himself into preparation. Long hours went into recipe testing, banner design, and getting the stall itself decorated. Farin helped him whip up a simple but striking signboard treated with some special lacquer -which another client had commissioned but had cancelled later which ren gladly took off his hands for a bargain- when the sun hit it at the right angle, it shimmered like heat on stone, the words “The Sleazy Snake” seeming to flicker like a mirage. Catchy, memorable, and, according to Farin, nearly impossible to replicate without the exact ratios of reagents he refused to share.

  Ren also commissioned some festival bunting from a local textile witch who infused the fabric with a low-grade enchantment that made the colors cycle slowly through warm, inviting hues. It cost him nearly a whole gold coin, but it was worth it. If he wanted people to try his food, he needed to draw them in first.

  The festival was only four days away when the new chef arrived.

  Ren heard the commotion before he saw the man: a tall, immaculate figure with crisp navy-blue robes embroidered in silver thread, an entourage of hired help, and a voice that could command silence across a crowded street. Lord Orbin, a self-proclaimed noble chef from the Caelian capital, had apparently “graced” the town with his presence after hearing about the dungeon and the swelling population. He already had his sights set on acquiring one of the premium corner plots near the main thoroughfare—and according to Farin, he’d bought it with enough silver to repave the whole square.

  Ren got his first proper look at the man during the mandatory festival briefing for vendors, held in a newly constructed town hall annex. Most of the local cooks and shop owners were tired, dusty, and a little nervous.

  Orbin looked like he was ready to host a banquet for kings.

  Ren stayed near the back, hood up. But when the meeting started, Orbin somehow managed to dominate the discussion anyway. He stood, projected his voice like a stage actor, and laid out a list of the competition’s rules as though he’d written them himself.

  “The judging panel will include one representative from the Adventurer’s Guild, one from the Mage Guild, and—at my humble suggestion—one culinary professional of recognized standing. Myself, of course.” He gave a thin smile. “I offered, and the town council graciously accepted. I believe it is important that we maintain standards.”

  Ren’s stomach sank.

  The festival would be judged. That wasn’t necessarily bad—but it would be judged by someone who viewed food more like an imperial performance than a source of comfort or innovation. Orbin’s very presence suggested he didn’t just want to win—he wanted to own.

  “The competition will be divided into three courses,” Orbin continued. “A starter, a main, and a dessert. Participants must present all three for scoring. Presentation, originality, and mana infusion quality will all be factored. Infusion types must be listed ahead of time and verified by one of the Guild markers before the festival opens.”

  A murmur spread through the room. This wasn’t going to be just a food fair. It was turning into a full-on battlefield for culinary pride.

  Ren clenched his jaw, already mentally reshuffling his plans. Starter. Main. Dessert. He’d been experimenting, but he’d have to finalize quickly. Most importantly—his flavor infusions had to hit hard and clean, without being overwhelming. Triple affinity was tempting… but risky.

  After the meeting, as the crowd filtered out, Orbin passed by him, eyes scanning briefly over the locals.

  He paused.

  “You there,” he said smoothly. “The snake stall, yes?”

  Ren straightened. “Yeah.”

  “Your mana signature is… curious. Untrained, but dense. Have you had formal instruction?”

  “Not exactly,” Ren said carefully.

  “Hm. That explains it. Still. There’s potential. You’d do well to study under a licensed culinary mage. There’s more to food than flavor.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Ren replied.

  Orbin offered a polite nod and moved on.

  Ren watched him go, heart drumming in his chest—not from fear this time, but something deeper. The same thing that burned when he looked at a raw ingredient and imagined twenty ways to elevate it.

  He’d come to this world a kitchen rat with a memory full of recipes and no magic at all.

  But now?

  Now he was going to cook circles around this pompous prick.

  And he was going to do it his way.